


A Heart Outrun

by remy71923



Series: Modern Love [6]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22161121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remy71923/pseuds/remy71923
Summary: Steve Rogers had come to terms in believing that love can never come in to his life again, until one day when love in the form of a redheaded woman moved in to the apartment beside his, and he felt what it was like to be human again.Inspired by “Would My Heart Outrun its Pursuer?” by Gary Presley, from the Modern Love Section of the New York Times.
Relationships: Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Series: Modern Love [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533998
Comments: 8
Kudos: 104





	A Heart Outrun

**Author's Note:**

> “I was past 40, my anger and frustration over being paralyzed mostly burned away. But it never occurred to me that the friendship, the connection, between [she] and me might also be the bridge between caution and passion, between isolation and connection.”

For Steve Rogers, waking up every single day was like completing a long, routinal chore. And that was just waking up.

Getting up was another thing, and making breakfast, bathing and getting dressed was each of its own feeling of a long chore, and he’d be surprised that all of it took a total of only an hour of his morning when each chore had felt like an eternity. If he had consumed an hour that day just doing mundane things such as those, he would then be left to think of what other things can he do to fill the rest of the hours of his otherwise lifeless and ordinary day. On some days, he would be called up by his buddies to hang out, and he would so because it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. On other days, he would spend the morning with a therapist to treat his PTSD, and on others, he’d get invited to attend the VA meeting, which he occasionally does, because one of his friends head the group, and he only really ever shows up for support.

On one of his tours in Iran as part of the U.S. Army, he, along with other military men, had encountered an IED, and when it was mishandled by one of his fellow soldiers, it exploded. It cost the life of that who mishandled it, the lives of two more of his fellow soldiers, the limbs of others, and his leg.

Thus, the prosthetic, or as he liked to call it—his robot leg.

Because everything about him, everything about his life and his day since that day he was laid off of army duty, had been so mechanical and robotic, so lifeless and much like an everyday, unbearable routine that he could barely even call it a  _ life. _ He knows what a life is, had  _ lived _ one prior to getting deployed. He had a beautiful life in Brooklyn, consisting of a wonderful circle of friends, had a family, and a beautiful love of a girlfriend—all of which he had lost in a whim as soon as he came back, after serving five years in the army and being deployed for two tours.

Perhaps it was circumstantial, some of the things he had lost. He had lost his parents in a car accident on the fourth year of his army service, and heavily relied on who had been then the love of his life, Peggy. His friends had been the ones he had served in the army with, and had lost some of them during the IED explosion, and lost  _ more _ when, during his recovery for his severed leg, his unit had been captured in an encounter with some rebels. A week after, when the high of the battle had somehow died down, they had searched for their captured soldiers, and it was then they discovered that none of the soldiers in the unit had survived, much less the rebels who had kidnapped them.

He lost his best friend right then—Bucky Barnes, one of the soldiers in the unit who was captured and found dead, who had been his close friend since childhood, and it was then he decided to finally lay off the military after five years of service. He had the mindset that maybe that was the right time to finally live a life, get the life he’d been wanting to have with the love of his life—Peggy Carter, his girlfriend for seven years, and his would-be wife once he would get back home.

But the life that he dreamt for himself prior to serving in the army had been dreamt by a different man, he figured. When he came home, he felt like a stranger even to himself, even more so with Peggy, and with his other friends. He was different, because he felt like so and acted like so. Nightmares plagued him during the night, and memories of losing his friends in the IED explosion and seeing Bucky’s dead body after being retrieved were all he could see, were all he could think of if he closed his eyes. He had barely slept, thus making him more tired than usual, and his phantom limb had never made it any better.

Peggy had tried her best to be patient, to take care of him and love him, even through nightmares, PTSD and prosthetic leg, but he figured even the most patient and the most loving can have their own limitations when it comes to tolerance, because if not, then he figured they would’ve still been together. Perhaps Peggy got tired of it, got tired of  _ him _ —him and his nightmares, his PTSD, his crabbiness, as well as his constant string of sardonic aphorisms and consistent complaints. Perhaps she got tired of it, because he felt it too—and he, like her—also got tired of hearing himself complain about the most mundane things over and over again, got tired of the nightmares and his constant paranoia, and eventual numbness to everything good in life. So when she left him, he allowed her to go, without even as much as begging her to stay.

“You deserve better,” he told her quietly when she had expressed to him that she was leaving him, that she couldn’t live through this everyday for the rest of her life, that she could no longer love him if he continued to be the way he was. But he couldn’t find a way out, and he couldn’t think of a possible way he could change himself. “You have to find someone else.”

And she did, when, two years after they had broken up, he had learned that she had been engaged to a man named Daniel Sousa, a wonderful young man who didn’t have nightmares nor PTSD, had two complete legs and had a bright outlook in life—a man that wasn’t him, and Steve was glad. He was glad for Peggy.

He had accepted it—that he would spend the rest of his life alone and isolated, lifeless and loveless, stuck in a void and a whirlwind of nothingness. He was an army veteran who was destined to spend the rest of his life alone, and he would  _ never _ again, in his life, imagine a kind of love that will stay with him until he would die. He had accepted the fact that should someone come in his life, he would be physically dependent on her, that he would be a chore, an obligation, a thing to nurture, a place to sacrifice and an altar to offer love, that of which he would not accept.

He could not rationalize how  _ anyone, _ how  _ any _ woman would love him and not come to hate him for the millstone he had made himself to be.

And to be honest, he hated stories that had a “but-then” moment. He hated plot twists, hated unexpected turns, and only lived for sad and miserable stories like the one he lived in. But now as he looked back, what happened to him wasn’t a plot twist, nor was it an unexpected turn. He had a sad and miserable story, but…

How can he phrase this?

She was his neighbor, a young, petite, redheaded beautiful woman who rented the apartment next to his when he had moved in Lower Manhattan. She had been a quiet woman, a shy woman who had moved in on the same way he did. He had dreaded this fact when he learned that someone else was going to move in on the same day as he was, because he was no stranger to moving in, and he was no stranger to overly-friendly neighbors who would attempt to make small talk out of him while they continued to move the boxes inside their respective flats.

But no, she had been different that day he saw her.

She minded her own business, and with that, Steve didn’t know if it was a good sign or not. He had stolen glances from her once in a while as he moved in, but she had never met his eyes, nor had she ever uttered a word. She insisted on moving the boxes by herself, arranging her own apartment by herself and refusing the help of the men who had helped move her boxes of things up. He thought he had been a snob, a hermit like himself, someone who lived alone and desired to be alone which was why she was avoiding eye contact, or why she had been refusing to speak to anyone or accept anybody’s help. But he had been wrong.

She was a single mother who had a four-year-old beautiful little girl, who mirrored her mother’s red hair and green eyes, and she had come along when a brunette woman had come by later that morning to drop her off to her mother’s new apartment. The little girl was quiet and shy like her mother too, but unlike her mother, her eyes roamed and she was curious about anything and everything that was around her, her eyes eventually landing on him when she had been outside as her mother continued to move the boxes in and she sat on one of those that were still outside. Part of his prosthetic leg had been exposed, and he was leaning heavily on the wall as he put his weight on his left human leg, having been tired and hurting from all the moving and lifting.

And the little girl’s eyes landed on the exposed prosthetics, her eyes wide but not in disgust, but rather in wonder. He saw this, and their eyes met, and he wanted to say something,  _ anything, _ because there was something about the child’s innocent look that had shifted something inside him as he felt lighter, felt freer for a split second.

“Alex!” She pried her eyes away from him at her mother’s call, as she hopped off the box and skipped over inside their apartment where her mother had been. And with that, he continued moving the boxes in.

They had been a quiet set of neighbors, if he was being honest. He knew the walls were thin, but he could barely hear anything on the other side. There were the occasional loud laughter and squeals, the soft and melodious voice of a little girl and the laughter of an older woman, but to him, he considered them pleasant sounds, those that weren’t noises, but rather sounds of happiness and hope, that every time he would hear it, he would feel lighter and freer, as if he remembered his life and who he had been prior to serving in the army, prior to when his entire life had practically went down the drain.

And his first encounter with her happened one afternoon when he had been tired from being in therapy and the VA, as well as hanging out with his buddies the entire day. He had difficulty climbing the stairs, and would occasionally lean heavily on the wall to rest, because he had been putting all of his weight on his human leg because his other leg started to hurt with the new prosthetics his doctor had just given him.

“May I help?” she had asked, stopping just a few steps below him, her green eyes wide and her hands full because of the grocery bags and her own personal handbag. He didn’t want to accept help, really, because he had never needed so. He only had two sets of staircases left to go, and it wasn’t like this was his first time to climb the stairs all by himself.

But the way she looked at him—that was something he couldn’t ignore, and he couldn’t snub.

“Yes, please.” he had replied quietly. And she climbed the few steps to be on the same level as he was and held out her arm for him to take.

“Just hold on, and we’ll take it slow.” she told him, and he nodded.

She had been patient as they took their time to take each step of the staircase slowly, and all the while had been thinking that this woman had a daughter waiting for her in the apartment next to his—surely she would’ve wanted to get there ahead and as soon as possible, right?

But no, here she was, slowly taking the steps with him, gently encouraging him as they did so, until they reach their floor.

“Thank you,” he said, pulling away from her arm almost immediately as soon as they got to their floor. If she had been fazed by how quick his movements were, she didn’t show it, instead giving him a nod and polite smile, her eyes landing on the exposed part of his prosthetic leg. He followed her stare, and let out a quiet chuckle. “Sorry. Prosthetics.”

“I know. Alex told me,” she said softly with a smile. “Alex, she’s...she’s my daughter, and I think she saw you had one. She called it a robot leg.”

And he let out a low chuckle at that. “I used to call it robot leg too.” he replied, and she offered him a small smile.

“I’m Natasha, by the way,” she introduced herself, her beautiful bright green eyes gleaming as she did so. “My daughter and I live next door.”

He nodded, offering her a small smile too. “Steve. Steve Rogers.” he introduced, and she nodded.

And he supposed that had been the start of the whole “but-then” in his life. It wasn’t a quick and swift “but-then”, but rather a slow one, a slow  _ burn, _ yet however slow he considered it to be, it was still somehow natural. The flow still seemed so natural, the way little Alex would beam up at him whenever he would catch her and Natasha leave the apartment at the same time he would in the morning as they all start their day, the way Natasha would catch him struggling to climb the stairs on afternoons they would come back home, the few words and small conversations were kept casual, only exchanged every time they would encounter one another in the hallway or by the staircase or in front of their apartment building. The flow seemed to flow alright—never too slow and never too fast.

One afternoon, their small conversations had surpassed the confines of the hallway and those outside their respective apartment units when she had knocked on his door, asking for help if he knew how to install a water heater in their bathroom.

“I’d ask for professional help but it really would cost some charges,” she admitted quietly. “And I'm running short for the month.”

And normally, if he were that man suffering from PTSD, constant nightmares and robot leg, that man whom Peggy left, that man who emerged from five years of service in the army, he would’ve lied and told her that he didn’t know how to install one, and that if she didn’t want to pay extra for a professional, then she could just live off without a heater. But, during that time, he figured, it was different. It was different, because as he looked at her, he remembered the moments she took to help him up on the staircase instead of spending those extra moments resting and lounging with her daughter. He remembered the small conversations she tried to make with him so he can instead focus on giving him an answer rather than the pain on his other leg. He remembered her kindness, her generosity, her gentle smile and her quiet voice.

He remembered what it had been like to be human again.

Her apartment unit was small, the same size as his, but hers felt a bit smaller, a bit messier and... _ more. _ More, because of the toys, dolls and children’s books spread all over the living room, more because it was decorated with small potted indoor plants and succulents, the shelves lined with books and pictures of Natasha and Alex smiling widely, and  _ more, _ because of the amount of furniture it had compared to his, because she had more, because she needed more for her daughter.

And Alex had been there to greet him as Natasha led him inside. She gave him a shy but bright smile as she gave him a small wave. “Hi.” she greeted softly, eliciting a small smile from him.

“Hello,” he greeted back softly, pausing in his tracks in the middle of their living room to slowly crouch down in front of the child. He winced inwardly, still not being used to bending his new prosthetic leg, but he kept a smile for the little girl, as Natasha watched them interact. “I didn’t get to introduce myself. I’m Steve.” he said.

The little girl looked up at her mother, as if silently imploring her mother if she would be allowed to introduce herself to him, even if he did know her name already. Natasha nodded, and the girl looked back at him as she gave him a smile. “I’m Alexandra Romanoff,” she said softly. “But you can call me Alex. And that’s my Mommy.”

And Steve chuckled as he looked up at Natasha who let out a chuckle as she met his eyes, and he gave her a smile before turning to the little girl. “I’ve met her, alright,” he told the kid. “And I’m here to help your Mommy install some water heater for your shower.”

And the little girl gasped, her eyes widening as she looked up at her mother. “We won’t have to shower in the cold anymore?” she asked, as if it was the  _ most _ wonderful thing ever, as if it was her  _ only _ wish and she was slowly witnessing it come into fruition. And Natasha laughed softly, one that warmed his chest because of how light and melodious it was, and one that made his heart flutter because of how beautiful her smile was.

“We won’t, not anymore, thanks to Steve.” Natasha said, looking back at him and giving him a smile.

He later found out, as he was helping her install the water heater, that she and Alex had just moved from Staten Island, having been living there with her adoptive sister, both her and her sister of Russian descent. She had been working as a preschool teacher, and took in private gigs for performing or teaching ballet—that of which would explain her slender, light dancer body. During that time, though, gigs for ballet performances were always dead, so she relied heavily on her teaching job to pay off bills. She wasn’t rich, but she wasn’t as destitute either, as she only had enough for her and her daughter to live with a little more privilege of an occasional tub of ice cream or simple things such as those.

“I know you don’t think a tub of ice cream is any extraordinary indulgence at all,” she said softly with a shy smile. “But Alex had always preferred and appreciated the sweet little things especially ice cream, and we didn’t exactly come off from a big and rich family.”

He thought it had been beautiful—the way these two girls cherish even the smallest and most mundane things such as a tub of ice cream. He later found out that the girl’s favorite was double chocolate chip, and Natasha’s was strawberry cheesecake. He kept those in mind, not knowing initially why he would keep those information in, but keeping it so nonetheless.

And as thanks for that afternoon, she had asked him to stay for dinner. But he hadn’t trusted her enough that yet, didn’t want her company as much yet, that he politely declined. The little girl had been disappointed, but Natasha simply smiled and nodded as if in understanding, giving him one more thanks before he left their apartment to go back to his.

But he can never forget that day, the same way perhaps  _ she _ could never forget it as well.

For the next following days that eventually turned into weeks, their talks had been on a more personal level—her favorite food, his favorite music artist, her favorite film, his favorite flavor of ice cream. He had told her of who he had been, where he had been coming from, and she took those pieces of information about him with ease, as if it hadn’t been a big deal, as if it was normal to meet someone who had served in the army for five years, suffered remnants of PTSD and had a robot leg. She never made a big deal out of it, and for some reason, neither did he. 

He asked her about this one time, “Doesn’t it bother you that your only friend in this apartment building is a mentally ill, army veteran with one leg?”

“Why?” she asked him, tilting her head as if in confusion. “I can outrun you.”

Steve had always been so guarded all his life since he got back, had been isolated and careful enough not to let anybody in, but ever since Natasha had let  _ him _ inside her apartment, thus allowing him a glimpse of  _ her _ and her daughter’s lives, he had this sudden willingness to do the same to her. He had this sudden surge of willfulness to allow maybe just small bits of her in. If he would hurt her by accident, after all, if who he had been after serving in the army would resurface once again and hurt and scare her—like she said—she can outrun him easily as she could.

Not that he wanted her to, though. He would never want her to.

So much so that during one afternoon he was on his way back home, he had stopped by the convenience store to buy two tubs of ice cream—one double chocolate chip-flavored for Alex, and one strawberry cheesecake-flavored for Natasha. And that early evening, he showed up on her doorstep, presenting her with these two tubs of ice cream as her face lit up and her smile widened.

“Alex, look what Steve brought us!” she exclaimed, and Steve had to grin upon hearing the little girl squeal and persuade him to join them for dinner, that of which had been filled with conversations and stories, mostly coming from Alex, who had recounted her day in preschool. She then proceeded to ask Steve about his robot leg, of course, and Natasha scolded the child lightly for asking about such a sensitive story—that of which she already knew, of course—glancing apologetically up at Steve who just smiled and waved his hand dismissively, as he proceeded to tell the child a story: that he had been a soldier who got hurt after a fight, and he had survived the fight but had lost his leg.

“Does it hurt?” she asked him innocently, a question that sent him down a whirlwind.

It did hurt, once upon a time, because losing the leg felt like he had lost a huge part of himself. It hurt, because when he lost his leg, he felt like he had lost a huge portion of his life too. When he lost his leg, he barely recognized himself, barely saw himself as human, and barely lived his life to do more than just survive. When he lost his leg, he lost himself—and that hurt most of all.

“It used to,” he told her honestly, and he glanced at Natasha who was watching him, listening to him attentively. “But now, not that much anymore.”

He started to admit that he liked the company of this mother-and-daughter duo, and genuinely enjoyed the evening he spent with them. He especially enjoyed the way their faces light up as they eat their ice cream, with Natasha stopping Alex from eating more so they can save their ice cream for the next day.

“You know, you don’t have to save your ice cream for tomorrow,” he told her as she walked him out the door after putting Alex to bed. “I can come by and buy you guys some.” He shrugged. “Treat is as my gift for both of you.”

And Natasha laughed softly at that. “That’s very sweet of you,” she told him softly. And she hesitated for a moment, before she tiptoed to peck a soft kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Steve.”

And so it was, that the one-legged army veteran suffering from a mental illness, and a vibrant young woman who loved the arts and worried over how she would support her wonderful daughter, had developed an odd connection—a link to a place where hands might touch, but thoughts, emotions and feelings began to flicker around the horizon. Steve had been out from army service for over a year during that time, by then his anger and frustration in his new inconvenient life had faded way. But it never occurred to him that the friendship, the connection, between Natasha and him might also be the bridge between caution and passion, between isolation and connection.

“I really don’t see the prosthetic leg,” she had told him once, a few months after their first dinner over at the Romanoffs’ apartment, and she had smirked, because she already knew he was going to beat her to a snarky and smug reply of “you don’t see ‘cause it’s hidden under my pants” as she continued, “I only see you.”

And yet despite everything, he didn’t believe her then.

As more months pass by, their lives begin to be more intertwined. Steve knew Natasha was a preschool teacher receiving minimal pay, and since her gigs of teaching and performing ballet fluctuate and still didn’t pay  _ as _ much, she struggled, still, to support her daughter, pay for daycare on top of the bills and food she needed to buy. And at some point, her schedule had become more hectic as the gig season for performances and teaching gigs pass, and she had to take extra hours to gain extra income. Despite everything, Steve still did not know how to love, not then, but he eventually relearned how to be a friend. He tried to help her with little Alex, sacrificing time with his buddies to help get her ready to bring her to daycare when Natasha had an early appointment, watching her after picking her up, and seeing that her mini “homework” (what kind of daycare has  _ homework, _ anyway?) had been done and her belly would be filled by the end of the day.

He would be on the other end of that beautiful bright beam of the little girl, and he would see glimpses of light being shed in his life. And by the end of the day, despite being tired, Natasha would give her a huge and grateful smile, usually accompanied by a kiss on the cheek, and he would feel warmth in the corners of his otherwise cold heart.

On exactly  _ one _ year when they had moved into the same apartment building, and less than a year of dinners, of babysitting, friendly visits filled with tubs of ice cream and a little girl’s squeals and giggles, Natasha was walking Steve to her door, after a day of Steve taking care of and babysitting for Alex, when she glanced upon the large window to her apartment, she saw a restored classic Volkswagen beetle passing by. She smiled when she saw that, and said, “One of these days, I’m gonna find one of those and rebuild it.”

But he had been half-paying attention, his body tired, mind drifting elsewhere, when he murmured subconsciously, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

And when her head snapped up to look at him, her eyes wide in horror, glistening with tears, only then did he realize what he had just said—a cruel, sardonic aphorism that may have made perfect sense to someone like him, but never to someone like her. “That’s a mean thing to say.” she said quietly, ducking her head.

“I’m sorry.” he had responded, almost automatically, because by then he never realized why she had become so upset. He knew wishes, was an expert of one—and had once upon a time wished his old life had been the way it had been before he joined the army, but it never happened. He never had his wish come true, never had a wish fulfilled.

“People have the right to dream.” she mumbled softly, and she was right. Because by then he had realized—his wishes not being fulfilled didn’t mean others, especially people like Natasha, shouldn’t have theirs fulfilled either.

So the following evening when she came back home to find him and Alex waiting for her in the living room, after Natasha had put her to bed, and after he wished the little girl good night, he told her quietly, “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings last night.”

But she just shrugged, and replied with, “It’s alright. I shouldn’t be so sensitive.”

But Steve saw her despair reflected on the slump of her shoulders, how his words from the previous night had managed to weigh her down. At the sight of despair—one that he is  _ so _ familiar with—at the sight of such sadness in one so usually upbeat and beautifully vibrant young woman as Natasha, such sadness in the spirit of a woman who needed something from him—he wanted to offer more than just murmurs of apology. But he knew that if he offered more, if he pushed himself to the world of this woman right in front of him, he’s afraid that he might lose the world that he had created for himself, where he knew he could no longer hold tight to the reality that kept him sane and alive.

Steve believed that he did not deserve to love Natasha. He believed that he shouldn’t allow her to love him, and held on to that idea so hard that he was content to spend the remaining years of his life just by being isolated and alone, like how he had been when he had been released from the army—a beggar who no longer wished for a horse. But Natasha was a woman, so beautiful, loving, kind and vibrant, and Steve was a man—who had terrible issues, but a man, nonetheless—who had heat and desire that sometimes rendered his own scars his robot leg irrelevant.

Steve had kept himself grounded in an obscene little secret he had known since coming out of Iran—a secret that had eaten away at any illusion that love and marriage for him would be like those in the books or in the movies. At some point, he would always be physically dependent upon those who will love him. He is a chore, an obligation, and he will forever be so. He could not rationalize how a woman might love him and not soon come to hate the millstone he believed himself to be, and all of these came into his mind like a fog of melancholic unease, as he stared at Natasha.

And he surprised himself, he supposed, when he moved across the few steps away from her and gathered her in his arms, and she had wrapped her arms around his body to bury her face in his chest, and his cheek on her head. There was no sound, no words between them, but only her silent tears, and his silent wonder.

And after a few more moments, she pulled away from him slightly to look at him, and he cupped her cheeks with his hands, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears on her face as he slowly leaned down to brush his lips against hers until he eventually did so in a soft, first kiss—the  _ right _ kiss, one that felt magical, and one he will treasure until his very last breath. She kissed him back softly and gently, pulling him closer to her, as they had spent the night together, where he had expressed his newfound love to her in every possible way he can, and where she had expressed her love for him in the same way.

Later that evening, as his thoughts and paranoia continued to plague him, and as they laid on her bed, sweat glistening their sated bodies, he hesitantly told her, as if giving her a final opportunity to run, “We should stop this. You need to find someone else.”

But she shook her head and instead buried her face in the crook of his neck, as his hold around her tightened. “Where can I find a man silly enough to look after my little girl and actually enjoy it?” she asked, smiling and lifting her head to press a kiss on his lips. “I like it that you put me first.”

Another year later, as they moved in together in her apartment, she came home carrying a small box and giving it to him, as he took it with a confused look on his face. He opened it, and found a man’s wedding ring inside—a wide silver simple band with oak leaves inlaid into its surface. “See if it fits.” she told him.

And he smiled and stood up, presenting to her also a small box, one that he opened for her to see, and she gasped when she found a woman’s wedding ring inside—a silver band almost identical as the one as his with oak leaves and a beautiful diamond in the middle. “See if it fits too.” he had told her with a smile.

Natasha was not a quick plot twist, never the surprise ending and never the unexpected turn. She was a natural part of the plot, the light in his story, the joy in his ending and the turn he will always be grateful for. Natasha Romanoff had been that little bit of light, that little ray of sunshine peeking out from the clouds he had forced himself to be under as each day passed in his life. She wasn’t a plot twist, nor was she an unexpected turn. She was a light that had always been there, one that he refused to look at because he refused to open his eyes to it, but even as she was the light, she was also the one who persuaded him to open his eyes and see her. And when he opened her eyes to see her, there he was able to open his heart, and finally open his life for the light to come in.

And if she were to ask him now, he would tell her that somewhere deep inside his psyche, a beggar sleeps, unaware that the man Natasha chose to love has gotten on his horse and has ridden away.

Now as they approach their fifth year of marriage, with their second daughter on the way, somehow he still cannot fully resolve himself to the reality of Natasha’s love. Nonetheless, he chooses to love Natasha, chooses to love his family against his head-logic and heart-dreams. Even now, as he confronts the task of living, of  _ normal, _ happy living in a normal life with a family, with which she helps him everyday with a mixture of guilt and gratitude, resentment and appreciation, anger and bemusement.

Natasha comes into their porch where he is sitting on, where he can perfectly watch Alex and their eldest girl, Sarah, playing on their front yard. He looks up at her and smiles, reaching out a hand of which she takes as he pulls her to his lap, his hand resting on her pregnant belly, their wedding bands gleaming against the sunlight.

He presses a kiss on her hair and on her shoulder. “I love you.” he tells her, because he makes it a point to do so at least thrice everyday. It’s the least he can do, because she had done so much for him to the point he had believed she had turned his life around, and now, he figures, it’s  _ his _ turn to take care of her, and it’s  _ his _ turn to turn  _ her _ life around for even better.

And she hums, turning her head so she can press a chaste kiss on his lips. “I love you too.” she responds softly.


End file.
